


Through the gate

by dioscureantwins



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, M/M, Sibling Incest, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-21
Updated: 2013-04-21
Packaged: 2017-12-09 02:08:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/768749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dioscureantwins/pseuds/dioscureantwins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft’s touch burned him. The fingertips brandished him with their mark through the outer fabric of his jacket, the padding, the lining, the cotton of his shirt. Sherlock swivelled his gaze away from the church, curving his head so he wouldn’t have to see his brother. Mycroft’s fingers groped his shoulder even tighter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Through the gate

**Author's Note:**

> betaed by the wonderful wellingtongoose. All remaining mistakes are mine
> 
> This fic has been translated into Chinese by the lovely hhggssll.  
> You can find the translation [here](http://www.mtslash.com/forum.php?mod=viewthread&tid=92069&extra=page%3D1%26filter%3Dtypeid%26typeid%3D29%26typeid%3D29).  
> You'll need this ID to login ID:authors Password:123456789  
> Thank you ever so much, hhggssll!

As he rounded the corner Sherlock almost ground to a halt upon spotting the sleek black car parked next to the kerb at fifty yards from the door to the flat. For a second he contemplated dropping the Tesco shopping bags he was carrying before turning and running off – he could lose himself in the library for a few hours or go back and open up the lab again. He actually felt for the comforting presence of the keys to the building in his coat pocket.

To go into hiding would be useless though. The car would be sitting there no matter what hour he showed up again, an unperturbed Mycroft situated primly in the backseat. His brother would use the time waiting for Sherlock to rematerialize upon his doorstep in the most profitable manner, flicking through his boring governmental files, transferring them from the pile on his left to the pile on his right as he worked himself through them with efficient diligence – marking them all with his own irrefutable stamp. 

Bracing himself Sherlock walked on with deliberately steady steps, bags bumping against his thighs as he pushed his hands deep into his pockets. The persisting cold weather provided him with a great excuse to hide those traitorous body parts. His sibling’s all-perceiving gaze would have noticed their trembling, even at two hundred yards.

Without acknowledging his brother’s presence Sherlock opened the door and stepped into the communal entrance hall, the door swinging to behind him and falling closed with a heavy thud. He ignored the row of post boxes and headed for the stairs. He never used the lift as it smelled of piss and weeks-old vomit. The seven flights of steps didn’t daunt him. Mycroft, he knew, would ride the lift with a cologne-splashed cambric handkerchief pressed to his nose, perched exactly in the centre of the small cube to minimise the chances of contact with the lift’s surfaces except for that between the floor and the soles of his shoes.

Upstairs Sherlock hurried down the walkway to his flat. Once inside he banged the bags down on the counter in the little kitchenette, slid out of his coat and dashed into the loo to splash his face with some cold water.

_Be calm. He’s angry because you didn’t go to London last weekend and justly so. You told him you would. He doesn’t know why you couldn’t fulfil your promise and he’s to never know. Never,_ ever _. Don’t give yourself away now. Keep your dignity. Imagine he’s not Mycroft but rather some arbitrary idiot you don’t care about one whit._

Gripping the cold porcelain of the edge of the sink he breathed deeply several times, pushing the air down into his lungs and driving it out again with great energy. After drawing a comb through his hair – not that it helped to tame the mop of rebellious curls – he inspected his outward appearance in the spotted mirror over the sink. The person that stared back at him out of the glass looked reasonably composed except for the splotches of colour high on his cheekbones. Sherlock wetted the corner of his towel, dabbed his face with the cool cloth and decided it would have to do. Mycroft might ring the bell any minute now. Still eyeing himself in the mirror Sherlock adjusted his shirt collar and pulled at his cuffs.

The bell sounded as he was stashing the milk in the fridge. Good. Now he could act annoyed at Mycroft interrupting an important household task with his constant – unsolicited and unnecessary – insistence on monitoring Sherlock’s life. He was twenty-four years old, damn it, employed by the University as a postdoc in biochemistry. His professors had been exultant when he declined both the Harvard and the MIT offer because he couldn’t stand the idea of living in the States. He was a genius, already high on the stairway to a Nobel prize and yet his elder brother sought to mother him as if he were toddler on a tricycle about to filter in on the M25.

All because he had made a stupid mistake six years ago and whose fault was that? If Mycroft hadn’t decided to become engaged to that _detestable trollop_ he wouldn’t have felt such despair, now would he? The bleak prospect of Mycroft bound in marriage to a woman he’d abhorred ever since they’d been introduced, had driven him to the solace of the needle. The high had wrapped its comforting arms around him to ease his longing and anxiety. He’d felt on fire during those precious moments, flying close to the sun. Thanks to the cocaine he had been able to free himself from the odious shackles of his illicit inclination and managed to ignore the green jaundice eating away at his insides. The voices in his head fell silent, if only for the too short moments the hit lasted. 

How he had resented the inevitable plunge back down to earth every single time. This hateful earth where he was spending his days while suppressing the very core of his being.

Once more the clamour of the bell rang through the flat just as Sherlock was about to open the door.

He yanked at the handle. “Yes, I heard you,” he snapped. Mycroft let his arm drop. The smile gracing his face oozed tranquillity. As usual his appearance was immaculate; from the meticulously coiffured top of his head down to the tips of his black austerity brogues buffed to a shine that would have reflected the sun if it hadn’t been hidden behind a thick duvet of dank clouds. Beneath the smart coat he wore a new suit in a dove grey and dark blue Glen check fit for a prince. Next to the right brogue the ebony tip of his neatly folded umbrella rested on the floor of the gallery in perfect quietude.

“Hello, brother dear,” Mycroft greeted him. Sherlock’s sole response was to glare at his elder sibling. Why did the man have to be such a natty dresser? His cleverly chosen attire heightened his attractiveness, adding yet more fuel to the flames raging in Sherlock’s chest, as if they didn’t burn brightly enough already. 

“I suppose you want to come in,” he growled at last.

“If it is not too much trouble,” came Mycroft’s congenial reply.

Sherlock stepped aside to let Mycroft pass into the tiny closet that served for the flat’s hallway. The unmistakable scent of his brother wafted up into Sherlock’s nostrils. A discrete blend of expensive leather upholstery, the dry dust of red tape, First Flush Darjeeling, the Aleppo soap he favoured for showering and shaving both, and lofty rooms hosting shady dealings. The whole delectable concoction lingered over the strong musk of a healthy man in the prime of his life. Instead of inhaling deeply – as he would have preferred to do – Sherlock coughed against his shirt cuff to protect himself against the mouth-watering olfactory onslaught.

“You’ve got a cold?”

“Yes.”

“Are you taking proper care of yourself?”

“Yes, I am,” Sherlock gritted between his teeth. “Now, what did you come all the way from London for?”

By now Mycroft had hung his coat on the sagging rack in the corner in the actual living space and installed himself in the one sturdy-looking chair after flicking at it with his handkerchief, which had turned out to be Egyptian cotton. With languid grace he twirled his umbrella, a vague air of gaiety transmitted by the spin of his wrist.

“A cup of tea would be most agreeable, Sherlock,” he enjoined, before eying the bust of Goethe on the sideboard, next to the one of Beethoven. “Ah,” he continued in a pleasant tone. “The great man himself. Let me guess, you didn’t acquire the bust because you took a liking to his _Die Leiden des jungen Werthers_ all of a sudden. Such overwrought sentimental rubbish. His studies in natural science however…”

“Exactly,” Sherlock cut him short. More than anything else he wanted Mycroft to leave. The tumultuous maelstrom of guilt swirling inside his chest nearly choked him. His decision to remain in Cambridge during the weekend had only served to cement the slab of self-loathing more squarely at the bottom of his stomach. If only Mycroft would storm, rant, declare his disapproval of Sherlock’s offensive behaviour in irate tones of condemnation. However, that was not the man’s way. Solicitous equability was his style, the haranguing he left to Sherlock, wrinkling his nose in distaste every time his brother exploded.

Carefully refolding his handkerchief Mycroft shot Sherlock an assessing glance. “Tea?” he enquired, raising one eyebrow and tilting his head to the side. With a deft movement he inserted the handkerchief into the left-hand pocket of his jacket, and patted the spot briefly to ascertain the handkerchief lay flat. To indicate Mycroft was as comfortable in Sherlock’s dilapidated student bedsit as he was in his spacious Belgravia flat he draped his left leg over the other and studied the tip of his shoe with a detached mien.

Sherlock crossed the five feet that parted him from the kitchenette to fill the kettle and flick it on. Behind his back he could hear Mycroft humming, a serene melody Sherlock discovered to be the finale of Beethoven’s sixth, as Mycroft employed his fingers on the wood of the umbrella handle to accompany himself.

Banging loudly with the cupboard doors to announce his displeasure with the proceedings Sherlock made the tea. In a tin he found a packet of crumbling chocolate digestives. He arranged them on a plate and plunked it on the coffee table together with Mycroft’s mug. After he had brought his own over as well he dipped his fingers into Mycroft’s tea and his own to extract the teabags while Mycroft observed the activities with an expression of mild repulsion on his features. Having attended to the needs of his uninvited guest Sherlock flopped down onto the rickety wicker chair, fearing for a moment it would actually break down under the sudden impact of his body.

“Now, what do you want?” he grunted.

“Always so aggressive. Why, I wonder? You know what brought me, Sherlock. I’m here because, contrary to our appointment, you weren’t in London for the weekend.”

Sherlock stuck up his chin.

“Such a disappointment. You left me quite in the lurch. To turn up at the opera on one’s own gives people such a bad impression. We don’t want that to happen, now do we? In the end – against my better wisdom – I decided to ask Harry Wutherfield to accompany me,” Mycroft went on in a perfectly neutral tone. 

“As you know I prefer to make the best of things, contrary to some people who indulge in throwing tantrums for no fathomable reason.” The umbrella made its way to Mycroft’s other side. “Sadly, my impromptu decision to combine pleasure with business proved to be an unfortunate one.” 

A brief hint of mental agony pulled at the right-hand corner of Mycroft’s lips. “I’m convinced I sprained some facial muscles in my desperate endeavour to appear collected while enduring the squirming and sighing of an insufferable barbarian at my side, doing his utmost to distract me from listening to some of the most heavenly music ever written. The rendering of _Per le porte del tormento_ in particular was exquisite, an astounding mezzo and the first violinist outdid himself.” 

His air of indifference didn’t fool Sherlock who noticed his brother’s surreptitious gaze slanting over him out of the corner of his eye. Sherlock bit his lower lip until he tasted the blood welling up. He refused to look at Mycroft. 

When Mycroft had telephoned last Thursday to instruct him to pack his only decent suit as he had procured them tickets for _Sosarme_ Sherlock had decided he wouldn’t go before he rang off. He couldn’t face the idea of listening to the famous duet while seated next to the object of his own stealthy desire. To suffer in silence while the angelic voices twined around each other, twirling higher and higher to the accompaniment of the violin in jubilant bliss, proclaiming how they passed through the gates of hell to find each other in the glorious paradise of unencumbered eternal love. Surely Mycroft would have detected his furtive love that could never be by the tears that would have glistened in his eyes. Oh, he would have had to close his eyes as the zealous declaration steadfast ardour would end in the reward of holding one’s beloved in one’s arms mocked and defiled his passion through the means of the music Mycroft cherished so. Thus he would have given himself away for he never closed his eyes while listening to music and Mycroft would have spotted something was amiss straightaway.

“I’ve always stated the country is perfectly able to run itself without your constant interference,” Sherlock snubbed in a cold voice. “In coming down here to create an upheaval over the fact I didn’t show up for a visit to the opera you’ve just proven me right. I suppose I ought to thank you.”

His back a perfectly straight line, Mycroft bent towards the low coffee table to pick up the earthenware mug of tea. The crude stoneware sat uneasily in the cradle of Mycroft’s manicured hands, unused to holding objects that weren’t precious or highly breakable. Pursing his lips he took a tentative sip.

The look of disgust that fleeted over Mycroft’s features upon tasting the concoction Sherlock had prepared him was almost comical. The mug made its way back to the table with less than Mycroft’s usual control.

“How can you drink this?” he enquired. “You make money in that job of yours, don’t you? Surely our parents imparted you with some sense of the proper way to prepare our National drink. I’ll instruct my tea seller to send you some orange pekoe. Please do get rid of this vile stuff that’s an insult to any decent human being.”

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders.

“I guess I’m not decent then,” he said, raising his own mug and taking a huge slug. The taste was awful but he was used to it. “Won’t you have a biscuit?” he continued. “Don’t tell me you’re dieting once more. Seeing how none of the previous attempts have had any lasting effect, I don’t understand why you keep wishing to avoid the inevitable.”

“Don’t try to rile me, Sherlock,” Mycroft answered placidly. “It won’t work.”

He picked up his mug again, taking another tentative sip of the brew Mycroft lowered his lashes. Sherlock locked his eyes on the mesmerising sight of the sparse light freckles on the back of Mycroft’s right hand as he tilted the cup to his lips. Together they formed the merest hint of a gossamer veil that shifted and glinted as the light hit them. 

Sherlock’s breathing became shallow as his glance caressed the golden sheen of the freckles, crawling along them up to the long and supple fingers; the fingers he craved to feel on his body but not in the affectionate pat on the shoulder he remembered so well from the time he was a little boy in awe of his clever elder brother. Neither did he yearn for the vicelike grip Mycroft held on his arm when he delivered Sherlock to the rehab clinic where Sherlock had asked to be taken after Mycroft had broken with his dreadful fiancée. No, he wanted those fingers to raise his chin and hold it while the other hand brushed the nape of his neck, tentatively, before gliding down his back, descending ever so slow along his vertebral column, remaining steady and sure despite the quivering shivers their touch would send rippling down his spine. He desired them to pull his thin frame tight against the broader body he ridiculed at every opportunity to hide his hankering after his brother’s figure. He needed to feel the lowest button of Mycroft’s waistcoat pressing against his bellybutton to prove they couldn’t come any closer than this. He yearned to feel the warm wool of Mycroft’s jacket brush his palms as Mycroft’s shoulder blades moved beneath the cloth to grasp Sherlock in an even more intimate embrace.

_And then, you would kiss me. Just a dry kiss at first, nothing but a brush of our lips, a gentle mingling of our breath. You don’t have to do this, only if you want to, but then you would pull me closer still and oh, I’d_ feel _you want to and I’ll open my mouth for you. I’ll open my mouth and you’ll ravish me with your tongue, just take whatever you need and I’ll let you, because you’ve conquered me, conquered me years ago. If a kiss is all you want that’s all right. A kiss, that’s all I would ask. Nothing more. You decide and I’ll follow, follow wherever you lead me._

With a brusque movement Sherlock stood and walked over towards the window. Hugging himself he surveyed the bleak landscape of the colourless city hovering under the equally colourless sky.

“You’d better go now,” he said. “I will come next time. I promise.”

Behind his back he heard Mycroft place the mug on the coffee table. 

“You still haven’t answered my question,” his brother’s calm voice reminded him.

“I don’t have to tell you everything, do I?” Sherlock shot back, still looking out of the window.

“No, you don’t. Except why all the mystery, Sherlock? All I wish to know is why you agreed to accompany me to the opera one day and didn’t turn up the next. Even you will have to concede that’s not an unreasonable query.”

The creak of the chair informed Sherlock Mycroft had risen as well. He gripped his elbows till he could feel his knuckles straining against the skin. His eyes inspected one of the town’s many church spires as he answered in a flat tone: “I didn’t feel very well and forgot to phone you. You found yourself a companion to save your face. I don’t see what all the fuss is about. Just go away, Mycroft.”

“You’re not using again,” Mycroft stated. Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I would’ve noticed if you were…” He let his voice trail off.

“Of course I’m not using, why should I? I’m caught up in some incredibly interesting research that will be an absolute breakthrough and change the world forever. In fact I was hoping to have a quick dinner and do some more reading this evening. Instead I find I have to justify my actions to my elder sibling who delights in detecting hidden motivations people aren’t even aware off themselves. You’re not my keeper, brother dear. Now back off, would you?”

Convinced he’d managed to oust Mycroft by his harsh words and his deliberate display of dislike at his brother’s presence Sherlock kept his gaze fixed on the spire, waiting for the thud of the door falling closed behind Mycroft’s departing figure. He was unprepared for the gentle hand that draped itself upon his shoulder.

“Sherlock?”

Mycroft’s touch burned him. The fingertips brandished him with their mark through the outer fabric of his jacket, the padding, the lining, the cotton of his shirt. Sherlock swivelled his gaze away from the church, curving his head so he wouldn’t have to see his brother. Mycroft’s fingers groped his shoulder even tighter.

“Sherlock, please?”

Through the hand clasping his shoulder Sherlock could feel how Mycroft brought up his other hand. Sherlock closed his eyes. Tears of frustration, humiliation and the agonising repression of his need surged up against the barrier of his eyelids, like tempestuous waves pounding a barrage.

“Go away,” he whimpered.

The next moment Mycroft’s fingers cupped his chin and tugged lightly, inducing him to turn to where Mycroft was standing beside him. 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said again. He tilted Sherlock’s chin upward, as if to inspect Sherlock’s face. Sherlock’s body had morphed into a taut line, rigid with need as he worked furiously at keeping his eyes shut, preferring not to see his brother as he gave himself away. 

Nebulous warm air stole over Sherlock’s lips. His eyes flew open and he was amazed to discover Mycroft’s clear blue gaze only a few inches away from him. “Sherlock,” Mycroft whispered; a mere quarter inch separating his mouth from Sherlock’s. Before Sherlock could ask what Mycroft thought he was doing Mycroft moved his mouth over Sherlock’s lips, touching them with calm assiduity. Sherlock gasped his surprise against the brush of the soft papery-thin skin.

After a moment Mycroft let go, breaking the spell. “This is what has been troubling you, isn’t it?” he asked. Wordlessly, Sherlock nodded. His whole face burned with the ardent wish to feel Mycroft’s caress again. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed, willing the traitorous tears away and he was relieved to find he could do so. A few seconds later he managed to relax and let his arms drop. 

Trailing his hands down the sleeves of Sherlock’s jacket Mycroft’s eyes flitted over Sherlock’s face, recording every flicker and change induced by the trace of his fingers. All Sherlock could do was look at his brother. 

“For how long, Sherlock?” he asked before a flash of insight flitted over his features. “Oh,” he said, his voice curiously distant. “I do understand now. Your addiction… Sherlock… oh, I’m so terribly sorry to have hurt you so. If I’d known…”

“You’d still have done it,” Sherlock interrupted him.

Mycroft inclined his head. “Yes,” he murmured. “I suppose I would. I imagined myself to be in love.” With an abrupt movement he released Sherlock’s arms and took a step backwards.

“I know better now,” he said. “In fact, I’ve known better for some time even though I didn’t dare acknowledge it to myself. Of course this is the reason your truancy cut me to the quick.” A faint smile tugged at the left corner of his mouth. “You were walking through a gate of torment every day, weren’t you? So why go and listen how other souls passed those doors to find joy in each other?”

With a sigh he drew his right hand over his face and through his hair, ruffling its perfect arrangement before tenting his fingers in front of his nose. Sherlock couldn’t remember ever having seen his brother so distressed before. “If you’d rather go…,” he started. 

Mycroft’s arms dropped down to his sides. “No, I wouldn’t. I don’t think so. It’s just…” His laugh was uneasy. “I wasn’t _aware_ of this, of _us_ …” Mycroft gestured between them “… when I decided to drive up here. I hadn’t even realised the truth until you were standing before me. Then I hit upon the truth and it became imminent for me to kiss you… to start with.”

“Oh,” Sherlock breathed his happiness.

“Not here, however,” Mycroft continued. Over Sherlock’s shoulder he threw a look at the narrow mattress sagging in the small alcove that opened up from the room. “You deserve better than a perfunctory uncomfortable coupling in a bed that’s too small for the both of us. If you wouldn’t mind waiting just a few more days? Come to me Friday next by the earliest train. I’ll take care of the proper arrangements.”

Sherlock nodded his consent. Mycroft walked over towards the chair and grabbed his umbrella, took his coat from the rack next. “I’ll go now,” he announced. “It’s better, I think.”

“Yes. I’ll be there, Mycroft.”

“Good.”

Their eyes locked over the width of the room – twenty feet separating them but distance was no longer a boundary – before Mycroft pivoted on his heels and hurried out, not bothering to close the front door.

Sherlock remained standing in front of the window. Two minutes passed before his brother emerged from the building, swinging his umbrella with a detached air. As he walked over towards the car Sherlock pressed his forehead against the glass of the window. He knew Mycroft wouldn’t look up at the flat before entering the vehicle. After Mycroft had got in, the car sat along the kerb for a long time. Finally it jerked in a sudden motion and surged into the slow traffic crawling along the road. Sherlock kept looking after it until it disappeared around the corner.

Then he walked over to the kitchenette. Humming the opening bars of the aria he started stashing the rest of his shopping into the fridge.


End file.
